Stolen Pieces
by HopelessRomantic-x
Summary: Forget, momentarily, about Hell; you should worry about what happens six feet under.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: A gift to the brilliant notreallyblonde44 who is my Secret Santa at TGS! :D This is not only a gift to her for holiday cheer, but also as thanks for inspiring me once I read a few of her works. You should definitely have a look!**

**Also thanks to AC_rules who has been my rock despite the encroaching distance lately and for being encouraging and getting me to put myself out there more. :)**

**Enjoy!**

Theory: people like chocolate frogs because they know they are supposed to. Some people like treacle tart, for example, because they know that's their preference.

Maybe that is how people know they are "self-actualised", they realise the differences between social influences and their own tastes.

Maybe that is why teenagers are so frustrated sometimes, they cannot comprehend the differences in society's influences and their personal feelings in regards to something or someone.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. That is all theories are and can be. They are but guesses at the complexity of life. One can search forever for explanations to the reasons why people and beings are the way they are.

Wizards shun theories. They do not need them. They do not need theories that hold possible answers for the world. Wizards and Witches care for themselves and personal gain. Those are two very well-known facts in life. For why do they need to question such simplistic subjects? They have the world at the tip of their wands.

Why should they question facts and figures of life when they are phenomenal compared to the rest of the world? Why should they, when they can flick their wands without effort and whisper ancient words in their great minds? Wizards and Witches can wave a stick and fill the void in their dying hearts.

They can do whatever their heart's desire. They have power, money, determination, arrogance - countless qualities that would be needed in order to fulfil their wishes. Strategy, timing and followers are the other keys to rise in ultimacy. They are easily earned.

They could easily blend in if they wished, they could stand out like a sore Phoenix, they could mix between worlds and no one would ever be the wiser.

They have so many options. They have so many opportunities that they stubbornly take advantage of day after day, millennia after millennia.

There are Wizards and Witches younger than myself who have had countless opportunities that I would use Unforgiveable Curses for and yet they undermine them again and again.

Wizards are stubborn, cruel and selfish beings - worse than any Muggle I could ever imagine or encounter. They are worse than the Dementors that invade my dreams and twist them into strangulating nightmares.

There was a time where I was young and foolish; I had trusted four Wizards and one Witch of who esteemed attributes; they were prejudice and gluttonous, but distorted into great, influential, comforting and protective beings in my young mind's eye.

Theory: animals, are incredibly smart creatures with impeccable hearing, avoid cemeteries because they hear the dead suffering. They will refuse as much as they are possibly able and when forced they will howl and cry - repenting for the cruel torture their owners have inflicted on them.

They fear the cemeteries for the dead scream and writhe in pain in their graves which will not obey their pleas to open.

The animals hear me suffering in my grave and they avoid the expensive headstone and newly refreshed flowers like the plague has been released into the air.

I would thank you if you could, momentarily, forget Hell and its rumours of pain, suffering and fiery torment. The immediate casualty one should fear is what occurs six feet under.


	2. Chapter 2

Minutes: that's how long it took for them to come and find me.

Hours; that was how long it seemed to take when they had captured me and pinned me against the spiky blades of grass, prickling beneath the back of my neck, my arms and my legs.

It was years before I could trust myself to be able to go outside again even with the help of my brothers and my mother.

Black was the colour I saw when I had left reality out of shock from what was happening to me.

Theory: people attack the ones they know or care about, in particular, because what they do or what they are scare them. Then they remember them at the very last point of their lives how they had loved those people in some way or another, but they still hurt them in a unique way, because they have a significant relationship with each other.

People attack others they don't know because they are scared of them. People attack others because they want to.

Those boys who came after me might be traumatised now – and possibly for the rest of their lives – but they will never remember me in death. They will never remember what they did to me, what they inflicted upon me. That made me angry sometimes.

I had never felt so violated in my life. I have never had anyone else's filthy hands on me like they had. They had made me feel dirty and disgusting and unnatural. Who were they to make me feel that way?

I used to think that I was the cause. I used to think that it was me who needed to be blamed. It was my fault that I had inherited magic, it was my fault that I could do brilliant things that Muggles couldn't. It made me feel like my abilities were more of a curse than a gift. That was how I had to treat it from that point. I had to, because I scared them. It was me and my magic that had scared those boys and it was my fault that they were scared and it was my fault that I was unholy and repulsive.

There was a very important time of Albus's where I was the problem. I knew I was because he was bold and intelligent and magnificent. I didn't deserve him. Aberforth had opportunity and potential and he could've been what he had always dreamed of, but after that day he couldn't bring himself to. His priority was me from that point on. It was always me. It was always my fault. I didn't deserve him – a pathetic excuse for a sister. I didn't deserve to have anyone.

I was six years old. We used to live in a place called Mould-on-the-Wold. We had a big, beautiful Victorian house. I loved it very much. I used to explore it when I couldn't go out while it was storming. I have very flippant memories of dressing up in grand dresses with intricate designs and flowing material. There were dresses with corsets and matching hats and matching shoes all of which drowned me.

There was a particularly good day where the sun had come out to dry the grass and the roads at the bottom of the hill. It was very wet and the house was dripping like a leaky tap, but it was very bright. There was freshness about the hill that we lived on. There was a great sight to see when you went to sit on our roof and look down at the Muggle life below. It was very refreshing, calm, and peaceful.

There was a neighbouring hill that many Muggle children liked to play on top of. Few boys and girls would kick around a ball that was spotted white and black as well as a long rope of some sort that they would whirl round and round, slow enough that the two girls in the middle could jump each time it hit the blades of grass blowing softly in the wind.

It was a very mesmerizing picture considering I never knew what these implements were – they were obviously children's games, but no one knew the name of them. I was forbidden to play with the Muggle children, because we were on the outskirt of our Wizarding village and the Muggles had their own village on the other side and for them our hill didn't exist at all.

Boys scuffled around with grins on their faces and girls pranced around with daisy bracelets they had specially picked out beforehand. Sometimes they would have a picnic basket and would share lunch between them all. Sometimes they went back down the hill, supposedly home or to a relative's, to eat and then come back again. They would always return before dusk, however, that was the unwritten rule I had understood from observation.

However, this was a day after a storm and I had no reason not to think otherwise that the children wouldn't be on this particular hill today. They had never come out before, even when the fields were dry by the afternoon. They had never come.

I walked down our own hill and then hiked back up to the next one. In the meanwhile I had decided to see what else I could do with my magic. I could do some very simple things at the time. I could make flowers grow a bit more so I could pluck them out of the ground and make my own bracelet. I could fill up my own glass of pumpkin juice if I had run out. I could make the grass grow into a small hedge that was firm enough for me lie on and sunbathe, comfortably.

I had decided to do something a bit different today. I wanted to make a maze. I had seen the Muggle children make some sort of course where they lay down their toys and had weaved in and out of them, avoiding touching their toys. I asked Abe to tell me what that was called – he called it a maze.

I went straight to the top of the hill and concentrated on making the hedges first. Once I had had them at their normal height I made them a little bit taller than I was. I made sure they were all joining together and had taken some sort of shape. It was a very short little maze – a simple one that only had a zigzag fashion, a way to get in and then get out. It was haphazard, but I was pleased with it all the same.

A very bright smile, I remember, had lit my face when I had realised what I had achieved. There was something wrong though. There was a prickling at the back of my neck. The hairs were standing up and I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. I touched my neck to see what was on it, and upon finding nothing I turned around.

Three boys that were older than me, closer to Albus's age rather than Aberforth and I, were watching me with a horrified look. I didn't understand why there were looking at me like that. I didn't want them to look at me like that. I told them exactly that, but my voice was small, scared and broken. Tears threatened to fall down my cheeks and I could feel the harsh lump in my throat and my chin wobbling dangerously.

What I hadn't realised was that the hedges behind me had taken a life of its own and were reaching out towards me poking me in the back with spindly fingers that were covered in leaves. The boys with their widened eyes and mouths agape roared with terror. That seemed to be the sound that the hedges didn't like because at that moment they reached forward even more so as I got more and more upset.

Instead of running away – why hadn't they run away? – they had run straight at me toppling me over and pinning me to the ground. The hedges at that moment shook in revulsion and began to retreat as I began screaming.

I was hurt and by the end of it my lovely maze and hedges and promptly collapsed as if it had never been erected.

Their words slurred and meshed together in my mind that I can no longer remember them. I had fallen unconscious through the middle of it and had woken up when my family had come to rescue me.

I remember briefly that my mother had held me in her arms with shock written all over her face unable to react to my unsightly appearance.

My father charged at the three boys after ordering all of us home. Aberforth and Albus tried to stay behind and help, but my father wouldn't let them. It was the first time I had ever seen my father so angry. It wasn't the last time I had seen him horrified, however.

After six months I didn't see my father again. We kissed goodbye and I waved to him before he was taken away.

Another six months after that and I said goodbye to Mould-on-the-Wold forever.

It took me a long time to realise that it wasn't my fault. It had never been my fault. It was their fault that I was the way I was. It was their fault that my father was taken away from my family. It was their fault because they ruined my family's life and we would never get that back.

There are so many lost moments that I will never have and it was because of them that I would never have memories that a small child should have. I would never have memories that a fifteen year old girl should have.

I held on to this animosity against them. There would be certain words that would lead me to a train of thought and in my mind it would always stop at the station with those Muggle boys waiting at the platform. They would always greet me when I got off from the train and while I relived those memories and grew more and more upset I exploded. I didn't explode because I was upset at myself; however, I exploded because I knew it was them who had the problem. They were the unnatural ones. It was not me. I held on to these thoughts like lifelines, because while I could remember that I had a hidden anger I could not remember my fits. I could not remember the level of anger. I resembled the same silly little sweet girl that was always innocent and scared. Those fits were the highlights of my life, because I could remember the pleasure of having raw magic flowing from my fingertips.

It was those moments that made my life somewhat special in a way. I cannot hold on to them any longer. I have come to find that while I lie here in my grave that I am incapable of overflowing emotions. I have only bitterness and pain at my side now.

I have learnt that any emotion is muted when you are alone and suffering in your grave.


End file.
